


twisting allegories

by theninthmember



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gun Violence, M/M, Poisoning, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-05-23 13:37:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14935298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theninthmember/pseuds/theninthmember
Summary: Kravitz wakes with his alarm, blinking blearily at the sunlight seeping through the cheap curtains. He sits up straight, looking down at his pajamas.Black T-shirt and plaid bottoms.Kravitz is reliving the same day over and over, as he tries to save his orchestra’s concert from failing. Little does he know, something is wrong, something that goes far beyond one concert.





	1. fixation or psychosis

**Author's Note:**

> It’s summer! Meaning I don’t have to feel bad about writing instead of doing homework lmao. This is something that’s been in the works for a couple months now, I hope it doesn’t disappoint!
> 
> Title is from [Far Too Young to Die](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FAiAOO37y1E) by Panic! at the Disco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 9/27/18: hey all!! I'm still working on chapter 3, school's predictably been a bitch! I'm going through this week and making small edits to both of the current chapters, and also adding trigger warnings through a footnote system, which I hope will be more effective!! I'm currently only putting warnings for scenes I find graphic or disturbing, but if you need a specific scene or subject warned for, you can let me know in the comments, or on my [tumblr](https://theninthmember.tumblr.com) (anon asks are open). Keep in mind that this fic deals heavily with the subject of death!

Kravitz wakes with his alarm, blinking blearily at the sunlight seeping through the cheap curtains. He sits up straight, looking down at his pajamas.

Black T-shirt and plaid bottoms.

He lets out the breath he’d been holding, turning off his alarm and sitting in silence for a few moments. He’d been holding out a foolish hope that it would be over today. Eleven is one of his lucky numbers, and he’d thought that maybe… Well, he supposes it doesn’t matter now.

After getting dressed, he kneels down for a quick prayer.

“My Queen,” he says aloud, quietly as to not wake any of the other guests through the paper-thin walls. “I thank thee for your many blessings, and for the responsibility you have entrusted me with. I ask thee for strength, to see it through.”

He grabs his wallet on his way out the door.

The cold hits him like a wall, a looming barrier of frigid breeze that quickly surrounds him and sinks straight through his clothes. He pulls his coat tighter around himself, but it does little to shield him from the chill. Luckily it’s a short walk to the coffee shop, only a few blocks from the motel, so he walks quickly and shoves his hands deep into his pockets.

When he pulls open the door he is greeted with a delightful warmth, and the pleasant sounds of idle chatter. The Davy Lamp is all but empty at this hour, only two or three of the tables occupied. Kravitz rubs his hands together, trying to get some feeling back in his fingers.

“It’s a cold one, huh?” calls the woman behind the counter, Ren.

“Yes, it’s quite unpleasant, actually,” he responds. There’s a script to follow, but he’s always considered himself an adequate actor. He approaches the counter, ordering a simple black coffee. “Kravitz,” he says when she asks for the name. “With a K and a Z.”

“That’s a new one,” she says, like always.

He takes his usual seat by the window and slowly sips at the watery coffee, hot and bitter and only marginally improved by the sheer amount of sugar he adds. He absently watches Ren work, not bothering to pull out his notebook just yet. He glances at his watch.

At 6:54 on the dot, the door opens and a woman with striking blue hair bursts into the shop, paying quickly and tapping her foot while Ren begins to fill her order. When Ren hands her her drink she doesn’t say thank you, instead turning on heel and rushing to the exit. She doesn’t see the chair that’s been pushed out from a table, however. Doesn’t notice it until her foot hits the leg and she falls unceremoniously to the floor. Her plastic cup flies from her hand, and travels in a wide arc through the air.

Kravitz tenses, but doesn’t budge, even when the cup hits him square in the shoulder, even when the lid flies off and he gets a lap-full of iced coffee. He grits his teeth.

 _This is how it has to be,_ he reminds himself as he stands up, shaking his hands to remove access liquid. The woman scrambles to her feet, shouts, “Sorry, sorry!” and bolts out the door. Kravitz sighs heavily and picks up the empty cup to put in the trash.

Ren rushes over with some rags. “I am so sorry, do you need a spare shirt? We have some in the back-”

“It’s fine, really,” Kravitz assures her. She nods, beginning to soak up the mess.

“Honestly,” she says with a huff, “I would have made her another if she’d stuck around. Where’d she have to get to so fast she couldn’t help clean?”

“I don’t know,” Kravitz muses.

An alarm sound goes off on Ren’s phone, and she gasps, pulling it out of her pocket immediately. “Oh my god!” she shouts. She jumps to her feet, the rags forgotten in a wet heap on the floor. She rushes behind the counter and digs around in a drawer until she pulls out a TV remote, looking triumphant. The television in the corner of the room switches away from last night’s football game, and a couple patrons make noises of complaint.

Ren pays them no mind, turning the channel to some food network. On the screen is a kitchen set, complete with an oven and stove, and stocked with pots, pans, and every utensil you could think of. In the center of it all stands a man in a pristine white chef’s uniform.

The man is gorgeous, not that Kravitz would ever say it out loud. Long blonde hair, manicured nails, and a showman’s grin—the polar opposite of his type. But nice to look at nonetheless.

“Who’s that?” Kravitz asks Ren, because she loves to tell him. Sure enough, her face lights up.

“Oh, that’s Taako! He’s this _amazing_ chef, he has a Netflix show, and he’s on this big national tour right now… this is actually live!” she tells him excitedly, pointing at the screen. “He’s over at Glamour Springs Studio. I wanted tickets so bad, but I took too many sick days last month and the bossman says I gotta _work_ —” she makes finger quotes “—to get _paid_.”

Ren sighs, looking back to the screen. “If he thought I wasn’t gonna watch it anyway I dunno who he thinks he hired,” she says with a smile. “I’ve been watching _Sizzle it Up!_ since it was a Youtube series. Did you know he was nominated for an award last spring?”

Kravitz shakes his head (he did know). Ren is still grinning as she turns up the volume on the TV. The chef’s voice is high pitched, a strange and lilting falsetto that frankly shouldn’t sound as good as it does. His ramblings are frequently interrupted by the tones of censorship.

“—and whatever you do,” Taako is saying, eyes on the camera as he gathers his ingredients. “Do not try anything fancy with this. Normally, I’d say do whatever the f—— you want, I’m not your dad, whatever, improvise. But this dish has thirty goddamn cloves of garlic. It is a balancing act of flavors, so taking liberties is really gonna f—— you over, just keep that in mind.”

Kravitz has the thought, as always, that this guy swears a lot for a national television star.

He blocks out the chatter and Ren’s enthusiastic exclamations alike, finally pulling out his notebook now that the danger of spilled espresso is gone. The first page is a mess of writing, flight numbers and addresses and schedules that don’t matter anymore. The second page, as always, is blank. Kravitz first jots down the plans that have failed, which is all of them. Then he begins to write out something new.

Maybe if he started the whole thing earlier, they could be finished before any of the bad shit happens. They have to cut the solo anyway, so it’s not like they’d be short on time. He nods, satisfied with himself. Once he has the logistics worked out, he takes a final sip of his disgusting coffee and waves goodbye to Ren. He stops by his motel room to change out of his soiled clothes and gather his music, before taking a cab to the concert venue. It’s at Baldwin Hall, which is small, and also the only place he could afford to book on the orchestra’s budget.

Kravitz arrives about an hour before call time. He spends that hour sitting in the front row of the audience, looking up at the spotlight hanging above the stage, and drumming his fingers against his knee. Maybe tonight. Maybe tonight will work out.

The other members trickle in slowly, setting up their instruments and chatting with one another. When mostly everyone has arrived, Kravitz taps his baton against his music stand until he has the attention of the room.

“I have a few announcements,” he says. “Anais is sick, so we’re cutting _Concerto No. 1_.” _Our best song,_ he thinks to himself. “The rest, we’ll be alright without accompaniment.” He takes a breath. “Johann has also contacted me, he’s stuck in Chicago and will not be able to make it. We’re cutting his solo, as well.” There are a few concerned whispers, at the notion of their concertmaster not being in attendance. “Strings, we know you all lean a bit on him, so go over your music, yeah?” Kravitz adds with raised eyebrows. There’s a murmur of laughter from the rest of the orchestra, and he smiles a little.

“We’ll start rehearsal as soon as our principal flutist arrives,” he says with a pointed look at Hurley. She shrugs.

Johann calls a few minutes later in a panic, informing him that his flight was canceled. Kravitz assures him they’ll get by without him, though in the back of his mind he wonders if they will.

When Sloane saunters in ten minutes late, he leads the group through a warm up, and runs through their pieces. They’re shaky without Johann and Anais, and cutting their best songs doesn’t exactly help. Kravitz wants to begin early, but they need the practice time, and in the end he only ends up starting half an hour before schedule.

He can’t stop himself from glancing up periodically once the concert begins. He shouldn’t; the orchestra needs his full attention to be on conducting, but with every song he grows more and more tense, like a rubber band being stretched. The possibility that they might make it through all of their music, the uncertain outcome that he might succeed, makes him even more nervous than he has been in the past cycles. They really might finish before it happens.

They don’t. Of course they don’t. They get thirty extra minutes but the concert is just winding down when the spotlight falls from the catwalk. Hurley barely leaps out of the way in time, barreling into Sloane and sending them both sprawling across the stage, instruments clanging on the wooden floor. Kravitz guides them behind the curtain, where he produces the ice pack he’d prepared earlier. They’re both a bit rattled, and Hurley’s knees are scraped up, but other than that they’re fine.

The concert is not fine. There’s no use starting up again, after a stunt like that. The spotlight is jutting up from the floor, pieces of glass and metal scattered across the stage. He makes an announcement that they’ll be ending early, and audience members leave pretty quickly after that.

Hurley and Sloane approach him after everyone else is gone. He asks about their instruments.

“Got a few broken solder joints, but that’s an easy repair,” Hurley reassures him.

“My headjoint’s pretty badly dented,” Sloane says with a sigh. “But I guess I was due for a COA anyway.”

“Any… any donors?” Hurley asks hesitantly. Kravitz grimaces, shakes his head.

“No, and I can’t exactly blame them. This was a disaster.”

“It’s not your fault,” Sloane assures him.

“No, I know,” he says. “I know, sometimes these things are… out of our control, I just… I’m not sure we’re going to be able to last much longer. The funds are pretty much gone at this point. This… this may have been our last run.”

Hurley and Sloane look so disappointed, Kravitz can’t make himself look at them any longer. He finishes gathering his things and bids them goodnight.

In the cab back to the motel, he sits with his head pressed against the window, watching the buildings of this small town pass by. Why did his Queen think he could do this? Why did she entrust him with this task if everything he does just fails?

When he gets to his room, Kravitz decides to go completely nude. Bedbugs be damned, it’s not like it’ll make a difference anyway. He hums Mozart’s Requiem while he brushes his teeth; it seems appropriate.

As he lies in bed, uncomfortably sandwiched in the scratchy sheets, he tries not to think about the next day. Tries not to think about the possibility that it will never come.

* * *

Kravitz wakes with his alarm, blinking blearily at the sunlight seeping through the cheap curtains. He sits up straight, motionless for a few moments before glancing down at his pajamas.

Black T-shirt and plaid bottoms.

He groans, turns off his alarm and rolls out of bed. His legs don’t catch him, and he doesn’t have the reaction time to stop himself from hitting the floor.

“Ow,” he says, three seconds belated.

He peels himself off of the rough green carpet and goes to brush his teeth. He prays. On his way out the door, he forgets his coat. It’s freezing, but he doesn’t go back for it. He has a schedule to keep.

This is all pointless.

Johann is in Chicago (as always), so they’re down their first principal violinist. Anais has a chest-cold, so no pianist, either.

He gets one of the venue employees to look at the spotlight, today, and they tell him it’s completely sturdy. 49 minutes into the concert, it almost takes out Hurley, as always. No one stays to talk to him about donating, and all the orchestra members grumble about what a shitshow the night was.

Kravitz sits in the darkened auditorium long after Hurley and Sloane grab their things and leave. He wonders absently where he went wrong.

The thing is, he’s not a bad person. He’s not a Phil Connors. He smiles at babies on the bus, he donates to the food bank, he’s polite and courteous to people he passes on the street. If he’s stuck reliving the worst day of his life over and over again, it must be for another reason than to teach him a lesson. It must be fate’s course. It must be because the concert isn’t supposed to fail, and his Queen is charging him with fixing it, fixing all of it.

So far though, that’s been a complete bust. He’s tried sending professionals up to check the light, he’s tried starting at different times. One day, he moved the whole orchestra three feet to the left. Nothing works.

It’s a lost cause. Everyday he tries to save the concert, and everyday he fails.

He puts on an undershirt and boxers when he gets back to the room, remembering the discomfort of the sheets on his bare skin from the night before. He can’t sleep, so he stares into the darkness until midnight brings him back into his peaceful dreams from the night before.

* * *

Kravitz wakes with his alarm.

Today he gets another venue reserved, paying out of his pocket. But the stage is so small the entire orchestra looks cramped, and when the wind picks up the rattling of the windows echoes throughout the hall, drowning out the music. No donor sticks around at the end.

Kravitz punches the motel wall before going to sleep.

* * *

Kravitz wakes with his alarm.

Maybe this is a punishment for something. Maybe he didn’t show his devotion clearly enough. Maybe he broke one of his Queen’s laws without realizing. He allows himself to ponder it while he gets dressed, nearly driving himself to madness by the time he kneels down for his prayer.

“My Queen,” he whispers, and voice sounds too small, too desperate. “I’m sorry. Please, please help me. Give me guidance.”

He tries not to gag as he drinks his morning coffee, which tastes like water from a gutter.

He goes up on the catwalk himself that night, feeling the spotlight for loose bolts. He finds none, and when he climbs down to greet the guests he has dust on his suit and grease on his hands. The spotlight falls, and Kravitz forgoes the taxi in favor of walking the mile back.

When he finds himself at the Davy Lamp, instead of his motel room, he hesitates a moment before entering.

Ren doesn’t smile, doesn’t greet him. Her eyes are red and puffy, her expression dazed.

“Ren?” he says when he reaches the counter. “Are you alright?” Ren looks up at him.

“He’s dead,” she whispers. “He died after the show.” It takes a moment for Kravitz to realize who she must be talking about. “They’re saying poison, it’s all—” she cuts off, scrubbing at her eyes.

She begins to make him a coffee, although he didn’t order anything. Her movements are almost robotic.

Kravitz doesn’t try to offer any comfort, doesn’t tell her that death is a natural part of life, that some things are beyond anyone’s control. Other people don’t seem to find comfort in predetermined endings the way he does. The way he always has, even before all of this. He takes his coffee and hands her a twenty, wishing her a good night. When he reaches the motel, he throws the drink away.[tw]

That night he dreams of the chef on the coffee shop TV, waving at him from the screen. Kravitz tastes garlic, hears a woman’s voice. **Find him** , it says. Kravitz’s can’t tell where the voice is coming from. He thinks maybe the speakers. Blood begins to pour from the screen, and Kravitz doesn’t move, even as it rises above his knees, his waist, his chest. This is how it’s supposed to be. Taako crumples to the ground, and the blood rises over Kravitz’s head. **Find him** ,the voice whispers again as he drowns. **Find him**.

* * *

Kravitz wakes with his alarm.

This sucks.

He splashes water in his face after brushing his teeth, trying to save himself from the painful monotony of his morning routine. He’s been holding out on unneeded changes, but a wet face couldn’t possibly interfere with fate’s plans. Besides, maybe his Lady deserves a little bit of interference.

He stiffens at the unbidden thought and shuts off the water.

The chef’s voice irritates him, today. The knowledge that he’s not alive anymore, or rather, the knowledge that he is. The knowledge that he’s supposed to be dead but is talking like he’ll live forever.

Maybe that’s unfair. Kravitz doesn’t give a shit. Hell, maybe Taako will live forever, since Kravitz can’t seem to find a way to appease his goddess.

 _Help_ his goddess, he mentally corrects.

“Add the sauce slowly, stir it in nice and easy,” Taako says. His voice is shaking with concentration, the speakers catching the waver and amplifying it. Kravitz thinks his ears might bleed. “You can add to your tastes, it’s not a science. Just pasta.” Kravitz has never paid attention to this part of the broadcast before, always too intent on drafting his next plan. Today he lets his eyes linger on the screen. Lets himself notice the way Taako’s hands wobble, how pale and sweaty he looks as his eyes dart back and forth.

“I thought your chef would have more of a stage presence,” he says to Ren on his way out, not bothering to filter himself. She doesn’t look at him, doesn’t seem to process the rudeness of his words.

“He usually does,” she says, frowning up at the screen.

When the spotlight falls that night, the noise is deafening, the shattering of glass and splintering of wood piercing his eardrums and thoughts alike. Kravitz doesn’t help Hurley and Sloane backstage, doesn’t offer an ice pack. Doesn’t stay after to talk.

He walks out of the concert hall without any announcements, to the audience or the orchestra. They’d figure it out.

* * *

Kravitz wakes with his alarm.

He goes back to sleep.

* * *

Kravitz wakes with his alarm.

He doesn’t have the energy to make a new plan today. Doesn’t try anything fancy. He must do something different though, something unnoticeable and infinitely important. He doesn’t expect any change, doesn’t realize anything is off at all until the spotlight falls. It doesn’t hit empty stage, tonight. Tonight it hits Hurley.[tw]

Sloane screams, and the sound echoes throughout the room, an accent to the sickening thud. Her flute falls to the ground as she clamps her hands over her mouth, shaking. Kravitz has the distant thought, disconnected from everything happening like a cut-off train car, that the headjoint is dented.

The audience begins to swarm like flies, running to the stage and from the stage and making phone calls and taking photos and shouting. Everything goes from silence to sound, from stillness to an awful rocking motion. Kravitz takes a step back, clutching at his stomach and staring at the spot where his friend was supposed to be standing, where she was supposed to be alive.

He walks calmly to the backstage restroom and vomits until there’s nothing left.

* * *

Kravitz wakes with his alarm, blinking blearily at the sunlight seeping through the cheap curtains. He pulls back the sheets to glance at his pajamas.

Black T-shirt and plaid bottoms.

He cancels the concert, releasing an onslaught of panicked texts from orchestra members and venue owners alike. He doesn’t read any of them. He throws his phone into the wall.

Kravitz doesn’t bother getting dressed that morning. Doesn’t brush his teeth. Doesn’t pray. He watches the television in front of his bed, though he can’t remember turning it on.

Taako smiles at the camera, a deep-set worry in his eyes. Kravitz finds himself unable to focus as he walks the audience through the steps of some kind of soup. He absently runs his hands over the sheets and lets the chef’s strange and beautiful voice wash over him like a tide. He drowns slowly, unmoving.

He closes his eyes at noon and sees a broken trumpet laying on a stage. He turns off the TV.

After a few more hours of sitting in bed and feeling sorry for himself, he sighs. He sits up. He ties his locs back and pulls his coat on over his pajamas. He needs to do _something_.

The temperature outside has settled into one slightly more palatable than the morning’s, though with the wind having picked up it doesn’t make a huge difference.

Ren smiles at him when he enters the shop.

“Love the outfit!” she says, amusement hidden in all the crevices of her countenance. “What can I get for ya?”

He hesitates. “Just… just coffee, please.” When she asks him for his name, he doesn’t specify how to spell it.

“Coming right up!” she says. When she hands him his coffee, he turns the cup in his hands. _Kravits_ , it reads. He smiles as he sits down in his usual seat, watching her clean off the counters. She’s so happy, there’s no way she’s gotten word yet. He should leave, he should really leave before he has to watch this sweet woman break down crying.

Something compels him to stay.

About a half hour after he sits down Ren answers her cell phone.

“Margie?” she says, pausing in her cleaning. “What—no, why? Okay, okay, calm down. Channel 6?” She pulls the remote out of the drawer and turns the TV from the sports channel. There are only two other people in the shop, and no one was watching, anyway.

It’s a breaking news report, a local station. The text at the bottom of the screen reads: _National Television Star Found Dead in Hotel Room_. Ren gasps as a picture of Taako appears on the screen.

Kravitz sees her knuckles go white as she grasps the remote tighter. She turns up the volume, and a female news anchor gives the details.

“—llet wounds, one in the shoulder and one in the head. Police have refused to give a statement at this time, but the current speculation is a crazed fan. More on this story as more information is—” Ren turns off the TV, taking a step back. She brings a hand up to her face.

Kravitz doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know why he stayed in the first place. Maybe he thought a death that’s actually supposed to happen would distract him from the one that wasn’t. Distract him from the death that made his stomach turn.

It doesn’t. In this moment, it’s just death, and in this moment, Kravitz doesn’t know what to do. He backs away from where Ren is leaning against the counter and exits the shop. He runs back to his room and buries himself under the covers, still in last night’s pajamas. There’s no real point changing, he’ll be wearing them in the morning regardless.

When he finally manages to fall asleep he finds himself back in the Davy Lamp, cup in hand and Ren smiling at him. When he turns around, someone is sitting at his table. She’s wearing a scarf that covers much of her face, hair hidden underneath a hat and figure cloaked in a trench coat. Even so, it’s easy to tell she’s very beautiful. Her eyes are a striking white, glowing against her dark skin. She gestures for him to sit across from her.

When he takes a seat, she looks him up and down, slowly pulling the scarf from over her mouth.

 **Fucking dumbass** , is the first thing she says. She points at the television screen in the corner of the shop, which is blank. **You need to find him** , she says slowly, as if talking to a child. **That’s the only way this works. You need to find him.**

He nods, not trusting himself to speak. He doesn’t know who she’s talking about, but he’ll find him. He’ll find him. The woman looks unimpressed. The cup in Kravitz’s hand dissipates into smoke, and the woman frowns.

**Damn, already?**

The table they sit at is next, followed by the counter and Ren, and before Kravitz can blink he and the woman are standing in an empty white space.

 **Find him** , she says again, as her own body begins to disappear. She sighs, squinting at him until only her eyes remain, like a cheshire cat. Kravitz feels himself fading away as well. His eyes close and he only barely hears her last words.

**I hope I didn’t choose wrong.**

* * *

Kravitz wakes with his alarm.

Maybe he’s dead. Maybe this is hell.

He shoves his head into the pillow and screams.

* * *

Kravitz wakes with his alarm, feeling the familiar emptiness in his chest.

He goes to the Davy Lamp without his notebook, all pretense of planning given up. Ren greets him cheerfully. She asks for his name, and he gives it to her.

He lets himself get covered in coffee, lets the blue-haired woman run off without helping clean up, lets Ren get him a new shirt. After handing it to him the alarm on her phone goes off.

“Oh my god!” she shouts. She rushes behind the counter and digs around in a drawer until she pulls out a TV remote, looking triumphant. The television in the corner of the room switches away from last night’s football game, and a couple patrons make noises of complaint.

Ren pays them no mind, turning the channel to some food network. She frowns, and the hairs on the back of Kravitz’s arms stand on end. He takes a step toward the screen.

This isn’t right. He looks at his phone, checks the date. It’s still the same. So why…

“Weird,” Ren says. “He should be on right about now.”

Kravitz doesn’t respond, doesn’t think he can as the room begins to spin. On the screen is a kitchen set, complete with an oven and stove, and stocked with pots, pans, and every utensil you could think of. And it’s empty.

Taako is nowhere to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Kravitz has a disturbing dream involving quite a lot of blood, from an inanimate source.  [read] [skip]
> 
> 2\. Descriptions of shock and grief after a minor character's death. Brief mention of vomiting.[read] [skip]


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kravitz searches for a missing chef

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> started from the bottom now we're here! one chapter above the bottom!!
> 
> enjoy!!!

It’s as if the world has shifted three degrees to the left. One minute Kravitz has a hopeless goal, a presumable eternity of isolation and tedium ahead of him. The next, he’s staring at a coffee shop TV screen that is one person too empty. Everything is exactly where he left it, but altered, just slightly. Revised in the way you can’t return from; irrevocable. _Wrong_.

He stumbles backward, feet needing to move but mind not having yet told them where to go.

“Sir?” Ren says from behind the counter. “You alright?”

Kravitz doesn’t answer her, can barely hear the question over the sound of his own thoughts. If the chef isn’t there, if Taako isn’t on TV, then that means… he’s somewhere _else_. And if Taako is somewhere else that means something has changed. Something is different, something Kravitz hasn’t touched.

Something has shifted his world three degrees to the left, and he needs to find out what.

“Ren,” he says, once he‘s able to speak. “You, uh—did you say this show was in town?” Ren nods, still looking a bit concerned.

“Yeah, Glamour Springs? It’s over on thirteenth. Are you, uh…”

“Sorry, yes, I’m—I’m quite alright,” Kravitz assures her as he backs toward the door. He tries for a smile as he pushes it open, but he’s not sure he succeeds. “Have a great day.”

“Oh, you forgot your coff—”

“Keep it.” And he’s out.

The street is fairly quiet, for what would normally be considered rush-hour, but then again, this town doesn’t exactly strike him as the rush-hour type. There happens to be a taxi passing by, though, which Kravitz takes to be a sign he’s heading in the right direction.

“Glamour Springs Studios?” he says as he gets in the cab. He hopes, a little belatedly, that he won’t need to provide an address. Luckily, the driver nods, and pulls back onto the street with a smile.

It’s a short drive, shorter than he would have thought, and he frowns as they pull over only minutes later. Why do they even need so many cabs in this town if everything seems to be in walking distance? Kravitz shakes his head and pulls out his wallet.

He gives a generous tip, certainly more than the distance would entail. He figures that either the loop will end today or it won’t; if the former, he’s probably justified in a bit of celebrational charity, and if the latter, he’ll just get the money back anyway. The cab driver is still staring at the wad of cash in her hand as he gets out of the car.

He feels a strange sense of purpose as he watches the taxi pull away from the curb. Like this is the moment fate was drawing him toward the entire time. This is where he’s supposed to go. He straightens his posture a as he turns to face his destiny.

He’s not sure what he was expecting. Something glamorous, he supposes. At least something a bit bigger. Glamour Springs looks about two stories tall, with sparsely placed windows and one visible entrance. The multi-colored sign above the door is faded and dismal, and the small shrubs planted under the lower story windows look to be half-dead. There’s one spot on the wall that’s been painted over in a similar color to the bricks around it, but not quite, probably to cover up the work of a street artist. The place looks more like an abandoned pawn shop than a television studio.

But every journey starts somewhere. If Kravitz’s start is here, he’s not going to turn up his nose at it just because it’s slightly dilapidated. He takes a deep breath and pushes open the door.

For someone with no explicable reason to be there, he gets remarkably far into the building. Kravitz had learned long ago that if you walk confidently enough most people won’t question where you’re going, or even spare you a second glance. He dodges hordes of employees and interns, who rush by him, speaking urgently into their phones and flipping through the papers in their arms. Everyone looks various shades of frantic.

At one point a young boy, who can’t possibly be older than eleven, runs up to him, dark curls bouncing wildly.

“Do you know where Taako’s manager is?” he asks urgently. Kravitz shakes his head, and the boy runs past him, toward the stairwell.

A few minutes later Kravitz is stopped by a man with watery blue eyes and a pasty complexion. He’s wearing a green plastic badge with his name (Lucas Miller), job title (producer), and photo (not a particularly flattering shot).

“Excuse me,” he says, in a nasally voice that Kravitz instantly decides he wants to hear as little of as possible. “Have you seen a kid, about this tall?” He gestures near his waist.

There’s something in this man’s face, and in his voice, some subtle and unspoken emotion, that makes Kravitz shake his head. Lucas Miller scowls, and moves to push past him. But then he must notice Kravitz’s lack of a nametag. Or maybe it’s the coffee soaked slacks paired with the Davy Lamp T-shirt that gives him away. Whatever the reason, Lucas pauses, looking Kravitz up and down.

“Sorry, wait, who are you?” he says. Kravitz puffs out his chest a bit, putting on his Conductor Voice.

“Oh, my name is Kravitz. I need to speak with Taako a moment, if that’s alright?”

Lucas takes a second to process this, and then he scoffs. “Yeah, get in line,” he says. When Kravitz only frowns at him, he rolls his eyes. “That no-talent skumbag is long gone, didn’t even show up for the shoot. Probably skipped town with his assistant. I was informed that he can be… prone to things like this. But, I suppose if you’re some kind of fan you’d already know that. Anyway—” He looks Kravitz over again before taking a small radio from his pocket, and raising it to his lips.

“Maarvey? We’ve got a Taako groupie in the G wing.”

Lucas walks away without bidding him a farewell.

Kravitz lets himself be escorted from the building by Maarvey, a burly man with a crooked nose and yellowed teeth. Standing outside amongst the shriveled flora, he feels a wave of despair wash over him. Taako’s not even here, and there are no other leads to follow. Kravitz had thought, had _assumed_ , that Taako’s disappearance was some sort of sign, some signal of his importance, but… it’s just another dead end.

Well, Kravitz reasons as he looks up at the building, maybe he’s not supposed to find Taako. Maybe his Queen has something different in store. He can deal with that, surely. One thing is clear: if things are changing, than there is a point to all of this. An objective. Kravitz only has to figure out what that objective is.

He begins to make his way back to The Davy Lamp, or maybe the motel, letting his mind wander from questioning his purpose here to contemplating the sheer abundance of taxicabs in this town. But as his thoughts drift, his eyes do too, and he suddenly finds his vision snagging on a figure across the street.

He’s not even sure why—everything about them is nondescript. Gray sweatshirt, the hood pulled up. Slouching, hands shoved deep in pockets. Head down. Their steps aren’t aimless, but they aren’t hurried, either. They look like any other nameless, faceless person Kravitz might pass in a crowd. Forgettable. Almost… almost _aggressively_ forgettable. The kind of forgettable that makes it look sort of forced, the kind of forgettable that makes Kravitz not want to forget them.

And so Kravitz pauses, following this figure with his eyes, as they open the door to what looks like a bookstore— _Author’s Attic_ , the text on the window reads. And then he sees a flash of color on the hand that grips the door handle, bright nail polish and possibly jewelry, and in that moment Kravitz knows, somehow, who the figure is.

He crosses the street in a near-trance, first walking, then running, only narrowly avoiding a collision with a biker (who shouts some unsavory words in his direction). Kravitz pays her no mind in his rush to get to the other side. He skirts a parked car and practically leaps onto the sidewalk. As he enters ( _Don’t Hesitate, Come In! We Are Open_ reads the sign on the door, in a curling script), he hears the tinkling of a bell, and he feels the stagnant air settle around his body.

The store is musty, and when Kravitz breathes in he finds the air thick and stale with the scent of old paper and dust. It’s not unpleasant, however; it’s the nice kind of quaint, a charming nostalgism of being curled up in bed on a cold day, or of exploring an ancient library when the sun is streaming through the windows. (The latter of these Kravitz has never experienced, but he feels a nostalgia for it nonetheless, if only for the aesthetic of it.)  

He searches the store, scanning behind every shelf of worn books for a grey hoodie. After a few minutes, he begins to wonder if maybe this was a misguided venture. But as he nears the back of the store, he finally spots his mark. Taako is standing before the last shelf, studying an old hardback copy of _A Wrinkle in Time_. Kravitz approaches slowly, and when Taako doesn’t seem to notice him he clears his throat.

“You’re Taako,” he says lamely, as if this man doesn’t know his own name. Taako looks up from his book, his eyes shifting from side to side before focusing on him. A smile stretches across his face.

“Yes, hi!” he says, his voice a Hollywood sort of cheery, but much too quiet to convey any sincerity. “Always great to uh—great to meet a fan, but like, not actually right now, if I’m being honest. I, uh… Taako’s sort of incognito right now, you get me? So if you could, uh, scram, I hate to be rude, but you know how it is…”

He trails off, staring at him expectantly, and Kravitz realizes with a sudden and sinking clarity that he doesn’t have a plan. He never had a plan besides _Find Taako._ If he’s being completely honest, a part of him had hoped that Taako would recognize _him_ somehow. That there’d be some sort of instant connection, and they’d both understand what to do next.

That doesn’t happen. He opens his mouth, trying to think of some sort of explanation for his continued company, and what comes out is: “You, ah—you’re not supposed to be here.”

Taako fidgets with the cuffs of his hoodie, looking uncomfortable, bordering on anxious. “Yeah, yeah, I um… the liveshow was, unfortunately cancelled. It’s complicated, but, I, uh, I really have to—”

“No, you’re—” Kravitz doesn’t have the words to communicate the enormity of the situation. The weight his being here carries. “You’re not supposed to _be here_ , every—every other time you’ve been at the studio, you’ve never…” He trails off when he notices that Taako has gone completely still, and is now staring at Kravitz like a deer in headlights.

“Who are you?” he says, voice low, eyes wide.

“My—my name is Kravitz. I’m here because—”

Taako slams the book into his face, hard.

Kravitz stumbles a step, his back hitting the bookshelf, and as _A Wrinkle In Time_ falls to the floor, he sees Taako dart around him, sprinting toward the exit. Kravitz takes a moment to touch his nose, which really hurts, he thinks it may actually be broken (it isn’t). A drop of blood falls onto his hand, and another stains a page of the open book at his feet.

“Shit,” he says under his breath. He begins to run.

The bell at the front of the shop rings out as Taako throws open the door and bolts. It rings again as Kravitz follows, not heeding the shouts of the owner from behind the counter.

His feet hit the sidewalk in a steady rhythm as he chases after Taako.

“Wait!” he says.

“Stay away from me!” Taako shouts back as he flies down the sidewalk. His feet skid like a cartoon character as he rounds the corner.

They make their way to a section of backstreets, devoid of cars and people, all but empty save for the two of them. Kravitz is starting to gain on him, when suddenly Taako takes a hard right, darting between two buildings. When Kravitz reaches the mouth of the alley he finds Taako standing in plain view, an empty glass bottle outstretched like it’s a weapon.

“Don’t come any closer!” he says, breathing heavily. “You even think about reaching for a gun and Taako will have you out so fast you’ll be wishing—you’ll—you’ll wish you never fucking woke up this morning!”

Kravitz straightens, just slightly affronted that he seems to have been mistaken for some common criminal. “I—I’m not going to hurt you,” he says after a moment.

Taako barks out a laugh. “Yeah, I really—I super fucking believe you, my man. Where’s the mask? Leave it at the studio?”

Kravitz blinks. “I—what? I don’t… I don’t know what you mean. My name is Kravitz, and I’m here because something is wrong, and you have something to do with it.”

Taako scoffs, switching the bottle to his other hand.

“Listen, I don’t know what kind of weird, fucked up angle you’re playing at, but it’s not gonna work. Shoulda—a-and honestly, you know what? You shoulda stuck with the mask, so I wouldn’t have to see your ugly mug while you try to kill me.”

Kravitz gapes a little, not sure how to respond. “I—I don’t—”

“What, never been called ugly before?” Taako says, the bottle shaking in his grip. “Well uh, fuckin’ get used to it, my dude. You thought you’d catch me off-guard with those cheekbones of yours, huh? Too fucking bad for you, I haven’t been caught off guard by cheekbones since I was a fucking baby.”

He’s almost shouting now, and Kravitz worries distantly that some bystander will overhear then and call the cops. Taako shakes his head adamantly.

“Uh-uh, even ones so sharp they look like they’d cut you if you got too close. _Especially_ those ones. My deepest apologies, Taako’s immune to that particular charm. Better luck next—” [tw]

There’s a banging sound, a loud clap that pierces through the air and echoes off the buildings lining the passageway. Kravitz would recognize it precious seconds later as a gunshot. He jumps at the noise, and so does Taako, the bottle falling from his hand. He stumbles forward a step, barely catching himself as the glass shatters against the ground.

And then he brings his hand up to his shoulder, and holds it there a moment, like he’s about to recite the pledge of allegiance. Only, when he removes it, it’s red, and his sweatshirt has a quickly spreading stain, and Kravitz realizes with sudden clarity that Taako hadn’t been startled by the noise—he’d been shot.

Taako looks at his hand a second, and then back at Kravitz. For a second he just looks confused, but then something akin to understanding lights behind his eyes, and he smiles a little, shaky and terrified. “O-oh, oh fuck,” he says. “That’s my bad, sorry, thought—I sort of thought you were someone el—”

Another gunshot cuts through the air, with a piercing _crack!_ Taako’s breathing shudders, and the world seems frozen for a moment, a reprieve of stillness in a period of chaos. But then he takes a step forward, and his knees buckle, and just like that, the moment is over. Kravitz takes an involuntary step back as Taako’s body hits the pavement. There’s blood, there’s a lot of blood. A few seconds ago the only thing soiling the ground was grime and a few crumpled takeout bags, but now. Now there’s glass, and now there’s blood, and now there’s a body with a hole in his shoulder and a hole in his head, and Kravitz is certain the street cleaners are going to have a hard time cleansing this particular stretch of road.

Faintly, over the buzzing in his ears, over the sound of his own breath, and over the deafening absence of Taako’s, Kravitz hears footsteps, and it’s only then that it registers that he might be in immediate danger. It’s only then that he thinks to look up.

Walking toward him, at the other end of the alley, is an imposing figure, backlit just enough that Kravitz can’t make out too many details. He can see they’re large, though from here he can’t discern if that’s muscle or fat. He can see that there’s some kind of mask obscuring their face.

He can see they’re holding a gun, raised and pointing at him, and Kravitz feels his stomach twist with a fear he has never felt before in his life.

He staggers back, nearly tripping over his own feet as he turns and runs. He hears a third gunshot, and the side mirror of a car just behind him shatters, and _lady above he’s going to die_.

The thought is strangely motivating, and Kravitz gets a burst of speed, adrenaline compensating for the exhaustion left over from his previous run. He takes a left at the corner, sprinting as fast as his legs will fucking carry him.

_My Queen,_ he thinks desperately as he runs. _I thank thee for anything, everything, I ask thee to please please don’t let me die here I don’t want to die I’m not supposed to die—_

As he turns the corner again he risks a glance back, and sees no one. The sidewalk behind him is empty. A slight relief takes hold of him, and Kravitz lets his footfalls slow slightly as he turns back around—

—and crashes straight into something. Some _one_. He staggers back, arms flailing wildly, both in an attempt to regain balance and as a means of defending himself.

“Woah, oh my god, are you okay?”

Kravitz finds his footing, and blinks as he finally gets a good look at who he’d ran into. Standing before him is a stout young woman, a teenager really, with a shock of curly red hair and a determined stance. Her foot his holding open the door to the shop they’re standing in front of, and in her right hand hangs a crowbar. Kravitz stares at her a moment, and then she grabs his shirt and practically shoves him through the doorway.

She takes a key from her pocket and locks the door behind them, before moving to pull the curtains shut over the windows.

“Sorry about that,” she says, without glancing at him. “You looked a bit shell-shocked.”

Kravitz turns, taking in his surroundings, shoulders heaving with every breath.

The girl closes the last curtain.

“I heard the gunshots,” she says, turning to face him. She’s still holding the crowbar, at her side, like she forgot it’s there. “Are you hurt?”

Kravitz shakes his head. The room begins to spin as he does this and he suddenly feels sort of sick. He sways, and the girl lurches forward to grab his arm.

“Woah-kay, how about we sit you right down, yeah?” She guides him over to a small black couch located behind the table, and he takes deep breaths to counteract the dizziness. She leaves him there for a few minutes, which he spends taking in the room. It looks like some sort of second-hand technology store, shelves displaying different makes and models of phones, gaming systems, and other devices. There’s a worktable to his left, littered with tools and spare parts, and behind it, a ladder is attached to the wall, leading up to a closed hatch in the ceiling.

When the girl returns, she presses a glass of water into one hand and a damp cloth in the other.

“For your nose,” she explains when Kravitz frowns at it. Kravitz had forgotten about that. After a long drink of water, he raises the rag and weakly swipes at his, probably just smearing the blood that’s already there. The pain of touching it barely registers.

The cloth is splotched with red when he lets his hand drop back into his lap.

“My name’s Noelle,” the girl says. She’s crouching in front of him now, so he doesn’t have to look up at her.

“Kravitz.”

“Pleasure.” She reaches forward and gently pries the bloody cloth from his grasp. “Is there anyone else out there?” she says, fixing him with a serious gaze. “Anyone who could get hurt?”

“N-no,” Kravitz stutters after a moment.[tw] He closes his eyes, but all he sees is blood on the sidewalk, and he quickly bites down on his tongue to chase the image away. “No,” he repeats. “They—they were after Taako, they killed Taako, and there was no one else on those streets, I don’t—I don’t know where they came from, they were—”

He cuts himself off as he takes a breath; he needs to take stock of what he wants to say before he starts rambling about time loops and street cleaners. Noelle waits, considerably patient for someone in her position.

Kravitz runs a hand over his face, still slightly wet from the rag. “Sorry, I—there was a person in a mask, and they—they shot at us—“

“You were with someone?”

“I was with a man, a—you know Taako? From TV?” She shakes her head. “He—he was a chef, he… he’s dead, I think, he was shot, I, um—“

“Hey, it’s alright,” she says, standing up. “Stay there. I’ll uh, I’ll call the cops, okay?”

Kravitz nods, and lets the noise and the minutes and the thoughts rush over his head. Lets himself be taken by the tide.

* * *

That night, after the shock fades and the questioning ends and the exhaustion sets in, Kravitz dreams of the catwalk. Specifically, being up on the catwalk. He’s kneeling next to that spotlight. He needs to fix it, he knows that, but he can’t figure out how.

**More to the left** , calls out a voice. He looks up, and standing at the end of the catwalk is a woman in a trench coat and a director’s cap.

Kravitz frowns.

“It’s not supposed to move left,” he informs her. “It’s supposed to fall.”

**No** , she says, and her voice booms, resonating somewhere deep in his chest. **It’s not supposed to do anything, it’s a goddamn light. But I want it on** **_him_** **, so it should be to the left.**

She gestures downward, to the stage, and Kravitz peers over the edge of the catwalk. He sees a head of bright blonde hair, standing just off center of the spotlight’s beam. And now that he’s listening, he can hear that familiar cadence, rattling on about oven temperatures.

Kravitz… Kravitz doesn’t want to move the spotlight. He should be fixing it, right? How’s he going to have time to do that if he moves it?

“I—”

**Stop** , she says, and Kravitz snaps his mouth shut. **Move the fucking spotlight so we can get past this stupid metaphor you’ve concocted for us.**

Kravitz complies. He feels _wrong_ as he adjusts the light, moving it mere degrees, moving it exactly _three_ degrees. But he does it anyway, shifting the beam so that it creates a golden halo on the top of Taako’s head. He takes a deep breath. Below him, Taako says something unimportant, probably, Kravitz isn’t listening anymore. He thinks maybe Taako’s talking to an audience, but he can’t see the crowd from here.

Suddenly, he hears a creaking sound, and feels the light moving under his hands, tilting forward, and he can’t stop it.

**Yes you can** , says the woman. But no, the metal is slipping under the pads of his fingers, and he tries to grip it tighter but it just slips further away, and then it’s falling, falling. Just like it’s supposed to.

**It doesn’t** **_have_ ** **to.** [tw]

But it’s too late. Taako is cut off mid-sentence as the spotlight crushes him, and he’s gone. Kravitz gets to his feet, jaw clenched, unable to take his eyes off of the wreckage onstage.

“He’s dead,” he says, hopeless seeping into his voice. “He’s dead. I don’t understand.” He turns to the woman, who just looks disappointed. “How can he help me if he’s dead?”

She shakes her head. **Stupid, presumptuous human. You’re just like her.** Kravitz feels small under her stern gaze, like he’s a child who’s knocked over a vase.

The stage below them turns to smoke, and the scene around them begins to fade as well, as Kravitz has come to understand is the norm.

**He can’t help you, Kravitz. You have it wrong.**

And when everything else disappears, her voice remains, an echo that rattles between his ribs.

**It’s the other way around** , she tells him. **It’s the other way around.**

* * *

Kravitz wakes with his alarm, sitting straight up with a gasp.

“Oh!” he says, the word breaking the quiet of the room in the best way possible.

There’s an idea, fresh in his mind, pushing up against every other part of him. He feels it in his lungs when he breathes in. He sees it behind his eyelids when he blinks. It’s a luminous revelation, new and exciting, and he laughs a little at himself for not thinking of it sooner.

Kravitz speeds through his morning routine, limbs vibrating with an energy he hasn’t possessed in weeks. He’s so overtaken by this feeling, he almost forgets to pray.

“My Queen,” he whispers, kneeling down in front of the door. “I thank thee for this new purpose, for showing me the right path. I ask thee for your continued guidance on this journey.”

As Kravitz stands, and places his hand on the doorknob, he doesn’t notice the foreboding chill that runs through the room. If he did, he would assume it was a breeze from outside, coming in through the door that he hadn’t yet opened. As he shuts the door behind him, a raven lands on a nearby street lamp, head cocked in careful observation. It watches him, because there is nothing else it can do. It is not supposed to interfere, not in this form, not in this realm.

Kravitz heads straight to _Author’s Attic_ , hoping to catch Taako there when he arrives. If he can find a better way to explain the situation, maybe a faster one, he thinks as he exits the cab, he might be able to convince Taako he’s not a masked murderer. And if he can manage to do that, he can stop the alley debacle from happening, and both of them will be safe.

A small part of him knows it won’t be this easy.

The bell rings, bright and cheery as he pushes open the door. He waves at the at the owner, a short old woman sitting behind the counter, and she gives him a kind smile.

As Kravitz reaches the back shelf, he pauses. There’s someone sitting there, back pressed up against the dusty hardcovers. This somebody has long blond hair, dark skin, and currently seems to be preoccupied peeling bright purple nail polish off of his fingers.

Taako leaps to his feet when he sees Kravitz, eyes wide. He’s not wearing the hoodie today, having—for some unfathomable reason—opted instead for bejeweled galaxy leggings, ankle boots, and a pink T-shirt that says _Eating Ass and Taking Numbers_ in white block text. He pulls out his phone, glances at it a moment, and exhales loudly.

“Thank the fucking stars,” he says. “You’re early. I was thinking… well, doesn’t—doesn't matter, I guess.”

Everything is moving fast, changing before Kravitz’s very eyes. Taako is almost an hour earlier than he was here yesterday, and he’s wearing a different outfit and he’s saying different words. Kravitz opens his mouth, to say… something. Probably something on par with _You’re Taako_. But before he can, Taako continues.

“So, you’re a part of this whole thing, yeah? The loop, or whatever?”

_Oh._ And maybe it would have been the obvious conclusion to draw, Taako’s awareness. It definitely crossed Kravitz’s mind at some point the day before, but in the midst of everything that had happened, he’d forgotten it was even a possibility.

Taako knows about the loop. Taako _knows_ , and Kravitz almost laughs, because lady above, that will make things so much easier.

After a short moment of silence while he processes everything, Kravitz nods, and Taako flashes him a bright grin.

“Excellent. And—and you’re _not_ the guy with the mask?”

Kravitz shakes his head.

Taako nods, bringing a hand up to the back of his neck. “Cool, cool, just making sure. Uh, I’m sorry about—about yesterday, my man, that was… _not_ my finest moment. Uh, remind me of your name again?”

He clears his throat. “Kravitz.”

“Kravitz. Lovely. My name is Taako, but you—but I think you already knew that, yeah?” He doesn’t give Kravitz space to answer. “Now, uh, I’ve got some questions, the first of which being what in the ever living _fuck_ is going on?”

Kravitz steels himself, the idea that had been with him since waking pushing itself to the forefront of his mind. “Taako,” he says. ”Something here is _very_ wrong, and I think…” He takes a breath. “And I am supposed to help you fix it.”

Somewhere outside, a raven takes flight, gliding upwards a moment before—in what would be dismissed as a trick of the light, had anyone on the street actually witnessed it—melting away in a gust of wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Gun violence that results in Taako's death. Descriptions of blood. Kravitz is chased by a masked person with a gun. [read] [skip]
> 
> 2\. Brief mentions of blood, gun violence and character death, as Kravitz explains what happened to Noelle.[read] [skip]
> 
> 3\. Breif description of Taako (in Kravitz's dream) dying.[read] [skip]
> 
> I updated the chapter count! I've finally got the whole rest of it plotted out!! it's on the short side, but that might be subject to change.
> 
> Thanks for reading!! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. <3
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](https://theninthmember.tumblr.com).


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